I never meant to let you go
by euphorbic
Summary: Janos and Azazel haven't spoken since the events of Chapter Twelve of 'The boy with the heart on his sleeve'. That's about to change. (M/M Azazel/Janos) A 'The boy with the heart on his sleeve' side story.


Notes: The second chapter is already written just needs a major overhaul. Here's my warning for the unedited and error-ridden Tumblr version: _Contains foul language, some blasphemy (see foul language), breaking and entering, allusions to organized crime and homophobia, Azazel being shallow, feelings, sexual content, possessive/jealous behavior, discussion of gender roles._

Az's POV is extremely crass but the only violence in this chapter is a detailed thought of what he'd like to do to a character that isn't actually present. That said, just proceed carefully in case I haven't thought of everything I should warn for.

* * *

 _Entering and breaking_

The apartment is smaller and tighter than a gnat's asshole, but it isn't hard to find nor get into. Part of it being so narrow means Aazel snags his arm on a coat coming through the door. The coat is part of a collection of other coats, hats, and scarves heaped on a top-heavy rack; it goes down, leaving Azazel with a handful of outerwear. The rack hits a rolling cart-shelf thing loaded with an international array of liquor bottles, oils, and spices.

It makes a hell of a noise when it hits, more so when bottles fall and scatter, but Janos isn't home so it isn't a problem. Not yet.

Azazel hisses his displeasure and quickly rights the coat rack and redistributes the weight of it's burden so it's only a little less precarious. It makes him wonder if he's got the right place; Janos isn't this unorganized and there are none of the coats or scarves he bought Janos there. The outerwear he finds smell of colognes Azazel doesn't remember.

His lip curls, because his nose for scents is encyclopedic; a trait so well-known to Janos that he had given Patrick Süskind's novel to Azazel as a Valentine's gift.

His dear Janos. His precociously morbid Janos. His handsome Janos who has probably thrown away all the colognes, all the coats, all the scarves. His Janos who is _not_ his because Azazel had drawn a line in the sand that Janos would be a fool not to cross. Janos has never been a fool and that is why Janos is... not his. He is Wilhemina NY's. Perhaps he even belongs to somebody else now?

Azazel's lip curls again and his nose wrinkles in kind. He checks his jealous rage, because in the end he can't wish Janos ill. Azazel placed himself on the side of the beach opposite opportunity and drew the line and then refused to step over it with Janos. The blood of their relationship is clearly on his hands alone and he won't blame Janos for tracking sand all the way to this dirty city.

With a crack of knees Azazel crouches and picks up the bottles that fell from the cart. He plucks a red handkerchief from his pocket for those that succumbed to entropy. Broken bottles are a theme with them, they're the last thing they traded the night of Raven's show. Azazel shakes his head and collects olive oil-covered glass from the floor.

If Janos has tracked sand, Azazel tracks things that are worse. Janos knows that; he once loved the excitement and chaos it had brought his life and Azazel had taken Janos' acceptance for granted. If his queer leanings weren't such a problem among the people he works for and with, Azazel would have had no problems parading Janos around New York like the trophy-winning show pony he is.

However, this city is a dangerous place for Azazel to be seen fucking around with a hot piece of male model ass like Janos Quested. There are too many people in New York that Azazel has worked with or against in the past and they would talk. Or blackmail. He's never told Janos outright, but he'd hinted and hinted heavily at that.

After cleaning up Azazel surveys the coat rack again. Typical of Janos it is all seasonally appropriate for autumn with rich browns, oranges, and scatterings of green that will pick up the bits of green in his hazel eyes. Many pieces are cashmere but more are silk. If this is what Janos keeps by the door, the better goods should be hanging up in garment bags in his tiny studio. Azazel throws away the glass and his handkerchief and walks through the narrow kitchen to the living space.

What he finds is so unlike Janos that Azazel snorts in half confusion, half shock. It's like Janos consulted an Ikea showroom. On the other side of the open bookshelves that separate the wardrobe from the rest of the abbreviated space is a lofted bed with a dressing table and mirror beneath it, a flatscreen television ziptied to the bed's support structure, and a hanging magazine rack with pockets filled with magazines, a tablet, and possibly the sleek laptop Azazel had bought him last year.

The lofted bed is so close to the ceiling that Azazel is sure Janos has no intention whatsoever of bringing anyone back here for sex. He drops his gaze back down to the floor; there's a thick sheepskin rug that's probably scratchier than an old man's pubic hair. It looks inviting only if you don't know the difference between a real sheep and a stuffed one.

Also unusual, the walls are bare. It's likely this place doesn't allow nails, but imagining a Janos that gives a fuck about such restrictions is too exhausting of a mental workout. There isn't even anything unique or decorative about the wardrobe. The only romance to the space is the bright colors of some of the bedding Janos has up on the bed's mattress.

Azazel passes the book shelf and appraises the bed again. Fucking on this thing would get any and all life and health insurance cancelled, but it smells good. _Blyad_ , it smells good. Even though he knows Janos would be cross, Azazel walks, shoes on, to the bed and takes a fistful of the colorful bedding and pulls it to his nose.

There's no way he can keep his eyes open. God and the devil, it's been too long with no contact, and now it's overwhelming. Behind his eyelids he thinks of Janos there on the impractical bed, he imagines him rubbing a cashmere scarf against his neck, his underarms, his cock, and then shoving it in Azazel's face to smell.

Azazel breathes out through his nose and then fills his lungs again with Janos' scent and in that breath he smells something more. He smells Janos' old favorite Kenzo, but he also smells something more striking. Azazel thinks of the proverb about the fox that knows the smell of his own den, and yes, that's what this is. He smells the expensive aftershave Janos used to buy him and, fainter yet, he smells himself.

He pulls the bedding closer to his face; it's smooth and soft. Azazel opens his eyes and sees red. It's not bedding, it doesn't even belong to Janos. It's one of Azazel's red scarves and Janos has been sleeping with it next to his pillow.

"Yanochka," he breathes and balls the scarf up to press against his face. This is why he's here. This is what he hoped to find. Here is a clue, a possibility, that there are still feelings and that evil thing known as hope hasn't died. The feeling rising in him is as elating as it is damning.

Azazel sits down at the vanity and waits for Janos with the scarf pressed to his nose and mouth.

It's hours later, fully past midnight when Azazel hears keys and then the door bang open; Azazel had left the door unlocked. Azazel has also left the entryway/kitchen light and the studio's overhead lamp on.

He hears rustling and closes his eyes again to better imagine what Janos is doing or thinking. If he is smart he will remember something concerning similar situations Azazel warned him about; he should leave the door open and walk away. Instead, Azazel hears something else.

"Hello, 911?"

Azazel drops the scarf on the vanity and tilts his head back. He can't remember the last time he rolled his eyes this hard.

"I want to report a robbery that maybe is in progress."

"Janos, please, there is no robbery," Azazel says loudly and drops a hand over his face. He hopes Janos explains the situation before any police are dispatched to break up their little reunion. It would certainly be uncomfortable if Azazel was there long enough for them to show up.

" _Qué cabrón._ How do I know? I did not give you my address or key. Get the fuck out."

Janos hasn't come in any farther than the doorway; Azazel has yet to hear the apartment door shut. Probably he is standing there with the door open waiting for Azazel to leave.

"I only want to talk, but not outside your door," Azazel says. He thinks about walking over there, but he's taller than Janos and his intimidation factor is not something he wants to employ tonight. "Come inside. It will take five minutes. Tell those nice 911 people there is no trouble."

There's another rustle, something hits the floor and rolls, and then the apartment door closes. Janos is cursing in vehement Spanish. He starts with goats again and then goes from fishes fucking Azazel all the way to shitting on the sacrament. Azazel likes Spanish; it's cute.

When Janos finally finishes his sacrilegious rant, Azazel leans forward eagerly and rests his forearms on his knees. He peers through the bookshelf and curses in Russian, because, _blyad_ , he's like a teenage boy with his heart twisting in his ribs for a glimpse of the handsome Spaniard.

When Janos comes into view, he paused and dressed too casually in the doorway, Azazel takes a reflexive breath. This beautiful man, he's wearing faded black skinny jeans, a charcoal double-breasted coat, and a natural-wool scarf made with yarn the width of two of Azazel's fingers. He's half hipster and half cover boy, but his eyes are smudged and weary.

Why must Janos be so fucking pretty? Azazel's shallow, knows he shouldn't care what a piece of ass looks like, but Janos' face hooked Azazel's dick one fateful day back in Portland. It didn't take long to be reeled in for Janos' personality to pillage what passed for Azazel's heart. He rues the day he and a few business partners went to downtown Portland as part of a one-time thing.

They'd gotten curious about the festival atmosphere that Friday more than a year ago and went for coffee at that stupid vegetarian café. The three of them ended up flirting badly with a group of pierced and tattooed models from a street side fashion show. His two business contacts still think Azazel followed Janos to an after party to find more conventional women.

"There is no 911 people," Janos says. It's clear he's tired, Azazel knows those eyes, knows that voice. "Now go. I have my moisturizer things to do to my face. I smell like cigars and I want to eat."

"I came to apologize," Azazel replies. He straightens in the chair and drops folded hands into his lap. "Will you allow that?"

Janos' eyes, dark and rich, move slowly up from where they were staring at the floor. Azazel watches him swallow and then blinks rapidly. His contoured lips part and he whispers, " _Me cago en tu puta madre_."

Azazel leans back in the cheap, molded plastic chair. "You never met my mother."

It only takes one step backward for Janos to disappear from the doorway. Azazel waits patiently. He listens to Janos go into the closet-like bathroom and hears bath water start. Since Janos hasn't repeated that he should leave, Azazel looks down at his hands and thinks about the situation. Maybe this is his chance. Janos can wash away the smell of cigars and do all his skin care alchemy without any help, but cooking? That's something he can do just as well as Janos.

The shower comes on and sets Azazel's course; he slips from the living space to the narrow kitchen. Janos' coat is on the overburdened rack with the scarf, his jeans and sweater are folded on top of the refrigerator. On the floor is a canvas bag filled with groceries; a few grapefruits have fallen from it and rolled across the parquet floor.

Working as quickly and efficiently as is natural to him, Azazel snags the canvas bag and starts putting the contents away; the process quickly familiarizes him with the tiny kitchen and its contents. He counts himself lucky that Janos has the makings for a simple version or pierogis using wanton wraps and enough vegetables for a decent salad he can spice up with the grapefruit that hit the floor. There's decent bread in the bag, but the only bacon he finds is heavily processed and vacuum-packed. This isn't like Janos any more than all the Ikea furniture or coat rack.

It's hard to prepare food in such a small place, it's reminiscent of the galleys on some of the worse ships he's been on. Azazel's hand-eye coordination, his efficiency, makes the best of the situation and if he takes a short break before caramelizing onions in bacon grease to press Janos' sweater to his nose, so be it.

Janos takes long showers; longer yet when Azazel joins him. But this shower takes so long that Azazel thinks the quick beet, carrot, and spinach salad he cut up with grapefruit and drenched with one of Janos' exotic vinegars might pickle. In fact, he's almost done stuffing a blend of cottage cheese, egg, onions, and mushrooms into the wanton wrappers (an idea he picked up from watching Japanese sailors make gyouza) before the shower turns off.

He says nothing, doesn't even touch the door. He's announced his desire to make an apology, there's nothing more he can do with words now, only actions. The food will be a gesture of goodwill or a bribe depending on how Janos decides to interpret it; it's a joke between them that fine food is the way to each other's heart. Azazel pulls to a quick stop when he checks Janos' wine stores for something that might go with pierogies. Riesling? Moscato? Janos' collection is small and contains either ridiculously expensive or supermarket buys. There's no rhyme or reason to it.

While the pierogies cook, Azazel roots out two glasses and fills them up with an expensive Moscato. It's not Janos' usual brand, perhaps it was a gift. Azazel glances at the bathroom door and then takes a quick swig straight from the bottle; if it was a gift he feels it is now appropriately desecrated with his scarred lips. He sets it on the rolling cart where the olive oil used to be.

Janos doesn't come out of the bathroom until after the pierogis are fully cooked and Azazel has set the burner's heat to its lowest setting to keep them warm. He's wearing a bathrobe, hair in a towel, and his face shines with whatever creams he's put on. Below his eyes are additional half-moon shaped eye packs; it's probably the Korean stuff he always made Azazel buy when he was at the port in Pusan. There were always plenty of Russian-speaking prostitutes there that knew the best ones.

Even like this, with his long hair hidden, his face oily and sporting the cosmetic eye patches, Azazel is disgusted to find Janos just as desirable as ever. Were it four months ago he'd be under that bathrobe in a second.

"Why are you here?" Janos asks.

Azazel hands him the glass of wine. "I told you; I came to apologize."

"No, _cabrón_ ," Janos says but takes the wineglass anyway. "Why are you here still? This is not football; in my home five minutes is five minutes."

Azazel is pulled equally between a laugh and a glower. "You wanted me to apologize outside your bathroom door instead of hall door?"

"I wanted you to leave." Janos looks away as he says it. "Do you think your apology will get something? Say your words and go. I need sleep."

The Moscato in Azazel's glass is far more inviting than Janos' attitude, it ripples and shines as he moves. Perhaps there is only so much food and wine can do. "I'm sorry, Janos. Your choice made me angry because New York is a dangerous city for us to be together. After the fight I thought I would not think of you by now, but I think of your every day."

"You and your danger," Janos says. He swirls the wine in his glass in a mirror image of Azazel. "Don't take me so lightly. Finish your glass and go."

Janos takes the plate of salad and turns his back on Azazel. If not for the red scarf and Janos' obvious intent to eat the food Azazel prepared for him, Azazel would break the wine glasses to finish it.

He places the half empty glass in the sink and turns the heat off on the stove. Before he walks out, though, he leaves his phone number with the sweater left on the refrigerator. Maybe Janos deleted his number after their fight, he doesn't know. He leaves it not for Janos, he tells himself, but for the return of his scarf.

* * *

The thing about Janos that drives Azazel a little mad isn't that he likes fucking him, because Azazel isn't the type to get attached to whatever piece of flesh that gets him off no matter the gender. That's how it was in the military and that's how it's been since he moved into security where there's better and more unethical money. He doesn't have a sense of shame so he doesn't care that Janos has long hair and a dick. What he minds and what drives him mad is that in the time they'd been together, Azazel had formed an insidious addiction that long hauls on the Northern Sea Route haven't cured.

The lack of daily messages and the absence of the occasional deluge of selfies Janos had once sent is like living with a phantom limb. He can feel the fucking thing itching but there's nothing to scratch and there's no equivalent mirror therapy that works. He doesn't have anything like the scarf Janos stole and when he had picked up a bottle of Janos' favorite Kenzo cologne, it didn't smell the same without Janos' chemistry to reinterpret it.

And so it's a combination of jetlag and a dull hangover the next morning that keeps Azazel in his hotel bed until noon. This is what he gets for mixing Janos' Moscato with bourbon. He's almost fully clothed; at least he had managed to take off his shoes and jacket.

He sneers into his pillow. What kind of pathetic man has he become? This is the thing men in the military and such always talk about with disgust. Usually they say it's pussy that makes a man weak. Women. Azazel isn't stupid, he knows it's attraction and, in the worst cases, love. _Pizda_ , _khuy_ , whatever; they don't sway him the way Janos does. Love makes men feel vulnerable and that's the thing they hate. Azazel knows and accepts it, but he doesn't like it anymore than any self-deluded asshole would.

He grabs his work phone to check messages and sees little that would cause him any trouble. His personal phone, the one that he uses to communicate with his small circle of trusted friends, including Raven and Janos, has a message. Azazel grits his teeth and unlocks the phone to retrieve it. It's from a number he doesn't recognize and was sent six hours ago.

 _If you want it back go to MoMA Café 2 at 6:45._

Azazel squints at the message but that doesn't provide the context he needs. The messages above the cryptic statement is more helpful.

 _Thank you for cooking dinner. Is that why you left your number?_

 _It's for my scarf._

" _Blyad_." It comes out as a sigh. He doesn't want the scarf back; he wants Janos to have it there to bring him back to his senses. Azazel wants Janos to lose the fight Azazel lost first.

* * *

Most, if not all, of his business partners understand Azazel's taste for finer things, because those things are all symbolic of status. Azazel's clothes, his accessories, his alcohol, his propensity for travel, and his taste for fine arts fulfill status which in turn grants him respect. They're also his personal preference; his interest in fine arts is legitimate. So after cleaning up and doing a little shopping for what he thinks of as 'penance gifts', he shows up early to the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art to check out their Kandinsky.

In New York he has some anonymity in public; even in Portland people tend to notice the incongruity of his scarred face with his clothes. It's even more apparent when he's in Janos' company. In New York only tourists give a shit about him and he can browse the museums without any trouble.

Of course, there are certain areas of New York that are unwise for him to traverse looking the way he does. Azazel isn't mafia, but people assume, and he does, in fact, work with them. He's dirty by association and design.

He takes his fill of the paintings and then the sculptures, snubs the gift shop, and makes his way to Café 2 about ten minutes before he's due. He scans the place for suspicious-looking people out of habit and notes Janos at a table with three other people; two blond women and a man with hair reminiscent of Janos' former roommate, Sean. They all look good and they're all talking except, of course, Janos. Janos who is wearing Azazel's red scarf in an artful knot around his throat.

Azazel walks to the coffee queue and successfully orders a Guillermo. In New York he usually doesn't have to explain why he wants espresso over lime. The girl with curly hair at Morpho had been confused the first time he explained what he wanted.

Before he takes his order Azazel checks his watch: 6:41pm. The espresso turns out to be tolerable, but it's always better in Italy and, oddly enough, at the café in Portland.

Back at Janos' table, Janos looks at his phone and then repositions his chair to face the entrance that joins the Museum rather than the one from outside. It makes Azazel smile to see that Janos knows him that well and then he feels a swell of satisfaction when Janos rearranges the scarf and tucks the loose ends into his coat and then pulls them out again. The woman next to him notices his fidgeting; she reaches over and rearranges it for him while she continues talking.

Irritation is waiting in Azazel's wings, but it fades away: this is normal familiar behavior between Janos' model friends. They have an eye for what looks good and will occasionally primp and preen each other like birds. Azazel tells himself if she was really interested in Janos she would give him her undivided attention, not carry on a conversation with somebody else like a mother with her son.

His drink is gone before 6:45 and Janos alternates between checking his phone and staring at the door: Azazel isn't one to be late.

He approaches the table right on time just not from the direction Janos is fixated on. The other three people at the table notice him first. One of the blondes stops talking and cautiously looks away; he pegs her as Russian or from the surrounding area. He can't really blame her for wanting to avoid his attention.

The other two look at him curiously until Azazel breaks the creeping tension with the two syllables of Janos' name.

Janos doesn't even turn around, he pockets his phone and wallet and stands from his chair. While they look on, Janos bids his friends goodbye. However, the redhead doesn't seem to take the hint. He stands and smiles blithely at Azazel and proceeds to introduce himself in Basque-country Spanish.

Azazel smiles his polite smile which has never made him look less menacing and says nothing. Janos repeats that he'll see them later and takes Azazel by the arm. On the way back into the museum Azazel doesn't hear the other models speak another word, but it could be due to the BGM.

Inside the museum Azazel lets Janos lead him around by the arm; he says nothing but his hand doesn't drop from Azazel's black jacket. They seem to be heading back to the abstract expressionists, their steps echo softly in the gallery spaces behind them. It's almost laughable when they pause before Joan Miro who, as far as Azazel is concerned, is the Spanish answer to Vasiliy Kandinsky.

Neither of them say anything to break the quiet. Azazel has never been uncomfortable with their silence before this. He looks over the paintings briefly and then moves the shopping bag in front of Janos. The warmth of Janos' hand leaves his arm and both his manicured hands come together to hold the handles of the bag apart. Janos reaches inside to open the tissue paper.

" _Me cago en la leche._ "

Azazel usually assumes that shitting on milk is the good kind of shitting on something when it comes to Spaniards. Spanish swearing is cute in comparison to Russian swearing, though it has been somewhat cute the few times Janos has tried using Russian _mat_.

Janos draws out the light brown fabric from the tissue and runs it against his cheek. "Vicuna? This is expensive."

Azazel nods. "It is difficult choosing between luxury and useful for you. I brought it to trade."

Janos rubs the new scarf against his cheek and then tilts his head to the opposite side to rub his cheek against red cashmere. "No trade. You don't want your old scarf back."

"Janos." Even though he's right Azazel draws the name out with a hint of menace. "What do you think I want?"

"You want to buy me with this $5,000 scarf, but there is a problem with your plan."

"And that is?"

"You are not the richest man I know."

How does Janos make him roll his eyes so much? As if Janos hasn't passed over richer and more powerful men and women in the past. "Is that so? Who is?"

Janos smirks. "Raven's brother, Charles."

The red Azazel momentarily sees is not his scarf. The other thing about Janos that drives Azazel mad is his mercilessness. "Janos. Charles went home with Erik that night, yes?"

Janos' eyes, like coffee-stained velvet, narrow. He brings the vicuna scarf up to cover his lower face and nuzzle into the softness of it. His lids eclipse his eyes completely in an expression of pleasure that may or may not be entirely feigned. Either way, Azazel knows with crystal clarity that he's being played, but he also knows Janos wouldn't play this game if he wasn't at least entertaining the idea of allowing Azazel to make up with him.

"Do you want to talk about that night?" Janos says from behind the first of what will likely be multiple penance gifts.

Azazel chews on the inside of his lip but nods. Really, he'd rather just get whatever punishment Janos has in mind over with and then get on with the makeup sex. If there's going to be a makeup at all. If Raven's overwhelmingly irritating brother isn't involved somehow with Janos. He remembers the first time he met Charles Xavier in Janos' loft. The _pizda_ had a lot of nerve walking out of Raven's room in just his underwear with a hard on. He'd no idea Azazel was there.

 _Blyad_ , he'll break his hands and cut off his fingers. Except he has always liked Raven and Raven wouldn't forgive that sort of inhuman violence if he visited it on her brother. She'd call the police and with all Xavier's money that could make Alaskan ports problematic.

"Take me to dinner," Janos says, voice muffled within the soft folds of fabric he's pressing to his mouth.

"The restaurant here has good ratings." Expedience is of the utmost importance when Janos is in the mood to play with his prey.

Janos drops the vicuna from his face to show a scowl. "No, it has only one Michelin star. I want two."

Azazel is absolutely certain the MoMA's restaurant has more than one Michelin star. Perhaps Janos simply refuses to be rushed, so Azazel turns to reasoning. "Two-star restaurants greatly need reservations on Friday nights."

A snort and a look of incredulity makes short work of reasoning, too. "I have someone who can get reservations."

Azazel nods in acquiescence; he has yet to win a round in this match, but that's how this will go until Janos is satisfied. He gestures to the room's exit. "Choose something where my face and accent will be no problem, eh?"

This time Janos' squints like a well-pleased cat and wraps the new scarf around his neck over the red one. "There are no Michelin stars for gay bars."

That's one thing Azazel can say for Janos' cunning; there aren't usually many homophobes or, in Azazel's case, gangsters at gay bars. "Gay bars or safe two-star restaurant: your choice."

"Michelin."

Azazel walks them out of the museum and outside to hail a cab while Janos punches away on his phone with his contact that has the connections to get reservations to a place that isn't Italian, Korean, Russian, Chinese, or Japanese. Janos remains focused on his phone when a cab pulls up, but Azazel doesn't find it annoying, he simply guides Janos into the cab with all the familiarity he's missed. Pride and habit have been keeping him at a comfortable distance that he overlooks in the backseat of the taxi.

The cabbie asks where they're going. Janos looks up from his phone and answers with a wide circular gesture.

"Just drive," Azazel interprets.

The cabbie takes them toward Central Park. Azazel doesn't really care where they're headed as long as he can keep his leg against Janos'. He enjoys the relative peace and quiet of the cab until Janos has an address on East 55th Street for them.

"Nordic," he murmurs to Azazel. "You can thank Charles."

Azazel doesn't reply, but he thinks he's going to beat the shit out of that _pizda_ anyway, Raven not withstanding.

The place turns out to be named after Norwegian seasoned liquor and even though Janos had the connection, they have to wait forty-five uncommunicative minutes to replace a last minute cancellation.

Once seated Janos orders the _prixe fixe_ for them and it's over whiskey, herring, and dry-cured gravlax (but mostly the whiskey) that Janos begins to loosen up. Azazel likens him unto an oyster that holds its lips tightly closed to protect what is soft and what is valuable. Of course, it's not at all lost on Azazel that oysters are also notorious aphrodisiacs.

Janos often appears relaxed even at the most tense of moments, but Azazel knows the real opening of his defenses only comes when he is one-on-one with somebody he is familiar with and trusts. So it is no surprise that it takes a refill of fennel-tasting alcohol to open Janos' lips a bit, little by little.

"We both saw Charles go home with Erik," Janos finally says.

Azazel's glass pauses on its way back down to the table, waiting for the following words to either continue or reverse its direction.

"But many crazy things happened the next day." Janos leans back with his glass, holding it before him with one hand while the other hand rests on the table. "But, important to us, Erik tore apart his shop and he and Charles rejected each other."

Azazel's glass makes the return trip to Azazel's lips, but he's careful to just taste the burn, not feed the fire that smolders in his gut. "Nobody touched you?"

It's Janos' glass that returns to the table instead. He tilts his head back and parts his lips to accommodate a slow pass of his tongue over the front of his top line of teeth. It can be easy for Azazel to forget that Janos is man that possesses no small amount of physical strength, but this expression reminds him; it's one Janos uses for intimidation. Azazel isn't easily intimidated, but he remembers just how big the radius had been when Janos threw a bottle of gin on the floor that night.

"You have no right to ask or avenge, Azazel."

Under any other circumstance Azazel would let the way Janos says his name (always with that Spanish 'a') warm or gentle him, but not this time. "Of course."

Janos' stares at him for another few beats and then he returns to his plate. They sit in another silence that Azazel knows better than to assume Janos will break. When the pork collar is set before them Azazel thinks his English vocabulary over and constructs what he wants to convey as well as he can.

"I apologized, which is challenge of pride," he says quietly, but with no lack of certainty, "but that is not enough for you. That is my due, yes? I agree with that."

Janos' stubborn jaw works even though he hasn't brought his fork to his mouth yet. "What do you mean about touching me?"

A small victory. "Did any one hurt you?"

"Only the asshole that made such a mess in my home."

A loss. The sea bass looks utterly unpalatable. "I have no defense."

"No," Janos agrees, "you do not."

Janos finishes the bass. Azazel doesn't.

The third course is dessert and starts with a braised pear with white chocolate and condensed milk; Azazel waves it away. Janos has no such compunctions and cuts into the fruit on his plate with the side of his fork's tines.

"We cannot unbreak the bottles," Azazel says. "I cannot erase what I said or the months of no contact. I am glad you did not allow me to limit you to that small career in Portland, but I do miss you."

Janos' eyes fall shut but he still manages to place the fork back on its rest on the table. He reaches up to the red scarf that he didn't give up when their coats were taken and opens them again. "I know you found the scarf."

Azazel's eyes are riveted to Janos face. "Yes, but you are stubborn and I worry that I cannot have you back."

Janos' releases the red material and falls back to quietly eating the pear, then turns to the currents and meringue. "I slept with three people since you left."

It's only because he knows he has no right to anger and because he wants Janos back that Azazel manages to not show how hot his blood has suddenly become. But he can't not ask. "Raven's brother?"

"There was no chance," Janos says evenly, "and Raven says Charles is trying to reunite with Erik."

Tension melts from Azazel's shoulders. "And your three? Do you want any of them?"

A small smirk pulls at Janos' lips. "You met them today. Do any look like my type?"

Azazel shakes his head in rueful admiration, the audaciousness of Janos' actions are impressive. His mercilessness and cruelty attract and repel Azazel all at once, but he'd be a liar if he said he didn't admire those qualities in Janos. He's a lover that should never be underestimated.

"That Basque boy, perhaps," Azazel says, "but only if he has connections to their liberation movement."

No quick reply is forthcoming from Janos beyond a small nod. He abandons his utensils and downs the rest of his drink. Azazel reads his actions as a desire for departure and raises a hand for their bill.

"Gay bar is next?"

There's an expression that defies interpretation on Janos' face as he shakes his head. "Take me home and maybe we will talk tomorrow."


End file.
